Depression Drawings Novels & Stories

I've waisted hours and hours making sure it looks exactly like him, now it's come back to bite me in the ass. In that drawer there are over ten drawings. My favorite ones. Over the years I've burned most of the drawings but those are special. They are the best... and the sickest ones. I didn't want to bring them with me in case someone might see them, but it was worse. "Oh, shit," I repeat again, because I don't know what else to say. Kingsley is going to do something to fuck me over because of them and of that I'm sure. I swallow and pick up my phone with my shaky hands. There are three missed videocalls from him and suddenly another one comes in. I answer. King's face is in a scowl now.

Having struggled with anxiety and depression my whole life, it was a relief to feel something other than fear and worry of being alone. Disappointedly, I watched him walk away in a hurry, still standing within the hallway as the awful feeling of my anxiety and depression returned, slowly engulfing me like a dark cloud.

No wonder Killian couldn’t look me in the eye this morning. I reach for the sketch pad Elara left by the nightstand. My fingers tremble, but I grip the pencil like it’s my lifeline. I don’t even think, I just draw. Symbols. Circles. Eyes with fire spilling from them. A wolf with a shattered spine. A crown that burns. A clock with no hands. My hand stops only when I notice the paper trembling beneath my touch. Not from me. From the floor. A low vibration hums through the wood. Like a warning.

As long as he left me alone, it meant that the chances of his assault reoccurring were low. Strapping on a top and a long skirt, I made my way into the closet and fished out the box of drawing materials. At least Tom hadn't found this yet. If he destroyed them as well, I would lose my mind for sure. I hugged the box close to my chest, feeling immense relief course through me. If I searched for escape from my reality, this was it. This was my escape. I cleared the desk in the bedroom, laid out my drawing paper and grabbed a drawing pencil. Swiping through my phone for a drawing video online, I tried to get lost in mimicking the artist's steps and trying to draw up what I could.

"Redwood? I don't remember much. The accident is what they said there was. A fire. But... it's blurry." The counsellor paused her pen. When you draw do you ever see anything? Isolde blinked. "See?" “Patterns, symbols, words, things that you do not remember choosing to draw.” She dropped her eyes on her sketchbook. A fragment of one page sticking out, in the angle of a page, was a wreath of golden lines, twisting in on itself, to a point that almost seemed to be a wolf-eye. "Sometimes," she said. "They just happen."

And then I saw the wall. Not the one he’d told me about—the one covered in drawings of Ava. That wall was bare now, except for a single sketch of the ocean at sunset. But above his desk, there were new drawings. Landscapes. Cityscapes. Abstract shapes that seemed to pulse with emotion. “You’ve been busy,” I said. “It helps.” “Helps what?” He looked at the drawings, then at me. “Helps me stay here. Instead of in my head.” I nodded. I understood. I’d been in therapy long enough to recognize the language of survival.

All they did in my class was practice adding and subtracting. Mom got a funny look on her face when I told her that I like to draw during math. While the other kids werre counting on their fingers I would pretend to be working in my workbook. Truthfully, I was sketching. I had some cool drawings in that workbook, hidden way in the back. I like to draw weather events, uncontrolled power unleashed on unsuspecting souls. I liked hurricanes and tornadoes the best. I loved the power a storm generated. The inevitable destruction it would cause was fun to try to put on paper. Sometimes I would see a storm raging in my mind and I could barely draw fast enough to get all the details on the page

He began to draw. His hand moved rapidly, the black charcoal scratching loudly against the heavy white paper. But today, the lines didn't form twisted roots or chaotic trees. Instead, he found himself drawing thick, overlapping lines of black, forming a heavy, iron circle. In the center of the circle was a tiny, faint outline of a bird, its wings clipped, its head bowed. He stared at the drawing, a sudden wave of deep, suffocating grief washing over him.

I drew each work from the depths of my heart and it made me happy. It gave me a good sense of belonging and it helped eliminate the boredom I was always feeling because I had something to look forward to since I loved doing it and I could spend the entire week, thinking of what biblical image to draw next and what message to put underneath it. It was a great source of happiness and it was the birth of all the dreamiest imaginations I harbored in my mind thereafter.

Her belly button was tucked inside the muscle and that's where the drawing stopped. May scrunched her nose. This drawing reminds her of someone. Someone she doesn't want to be reminded of, Bella. Her eyes shifted to the next drawing which she found to be the worst. A woman and man having sex. No, it looked like she was being raped cause her hands were tied. May's stomach churned. She felt uncomfortable. Why does he have such obscenities drawn in his room? The third and fourth drawings she loved, however. She thought the artist had done a wonderful job drawing a rose that looked like it was dying with its leaves dropping to the floor.